These days of struggle. These hours of intent. In my room, I write. There are no amazing accolades. There is no money. My novel still a work in progress. So many years have I taken to arrive at this point, and still I’m only at the beginning. Doubt plagues me every day. I’m not good enough. I’m delusional. A fool for even trying. With my qualifications, I should be earning good money and living in the city. Should be fucking like a celebrity with not even the slightest hint of a downward spiral. Yet here I am, still fighting for what I believe in. Still writing because it’s the only thing that makes me feel real. And that’s it. The jewel in my maddened crown. Without these words, I’d be useless. Just another nobody. Just an empty shell. These words help save me from oblivion. They act as a portal to childhood wonder. Everyone has something that makes them feel alive, and this is what does it for me. Relationships have fallen apart because of it. Opportunities of a teaching career abandoned. I’ve watched my contemporaries excel in their given fields. Yet here I remain, struggling to become a writer worth reading. Struggling to accept that I am the way I am. If I could change, then I probably would. An easy life would be so welcome. A family. A nice little niche to slip in to and fulfil. To become like everyone else. To disappear into those bland halls of acceptance. But there’s no backing out now. It would be impossible even if I tried. This is how, and what, I am. There’s no going back, and there’s no changing these spots.
How the years come and go. Fading like wallpaper, they disappear into the background without you even knowing. Comfort comes and destroys belief. Teenagers reek of resentment, yet they grow up and become part of the machine. People speak of standing apart, and then they take the money and run. They find love and succumb to silence. Mute heroes worshipped everywhere you look. They preach a plastic culture. They preach average. Even their controversy is bland. Sex sells and that’s about it. Sex is fine, but the little death is just an illusion. In the words of someone who has guided my vision for so long, it’s just a lukewarm pleasure. Don’t waste your life on body parts. It’s worth seeking, that’s for sure, but in the grand scheme of things, flesh is flesh. It’s temporary. It rots, and after you’re gone it will never return. An idea, however, will outlive us all. My heart is full of love, and many has it loved over the years. I’m not a monster, not some cold recluse who hates the outside world. I’m young, and I’m free. My desires burn with a passion, and these hands of mine have caressed with a truth so fine that can’t be denied. I’m just a regular soul with a hunger for secrets, with a need to step outside the lines. Derision doesn’t bother me; it means nothing when compared to the ideas that grow in my mind. These thoughts of mine that help me visit every inch of the universe, I wouldn’t trade them for anything. And yet… And yet I dream of the day when my novel is nailed. When the world can taste my struggle, when it can breathe in the fruition of so many years of hard work. Let them know that I was never lazy, I was just existing in another time and place. Let them see the things that I have seen. Let them believe in something more.
Categories: On Writing